Because the bus I am on doesn’t have working power outlets to charge my laptop, I am writing the first draft of this piece by hand. Now, that may not seem incredibly revolutionary, but if you’ve ever seen me in front of a keyboard, you would know what a handicap it is for me to hand-write anything.

I’m an incredibly fast typist. In college, I had the digital note-taking skills of a court stenographer, transcribing verbatim every word that left my professors’ mouths. My typing talent enabled me to collect so much information that I could probably teach the coursework myself using only my class notes as a guide.

Sure, in my years of typing, I’d let my handwriting deteriorate into a mess of jagged, unreadable squiggles. But what did it matter? In truth, my laptop was the only way I’d embraced the technological revolution. I still frequented the stacks of libraries on a regular basis. I sent physical cards in the mail for birthdays and holidays. I gave away my eReader after immediately regretting the purchase. And hey, at least I wasn’t one of those smartphone addicts.

I prided myself on the idea that I wasn’t glued to my smartphone. Yes, I used it for texting, podcasts, Google Maps, and basic functions, but when someone would give me directions or information, I’d whip out my oh-so-nerdy little Moleskine notebook and jot their words down with a fine-tipped black pen I’d paid too much for at a stationery shop in Park Slope. I stood behind my antiquated practices when it came to handheld gadgetry, proud of my ignorance of what an “S-Beam” or “Smart Stay” was. I may have had a deep love of Microsoft Word, but I was still a true nerd with a true appreciation for the art of a hand-bound book or a snail-mailed letter. I felt, dare I say, even a little superior to the rest of my generation, who were connected to Facebook or Instagram every second of the day via their smartphones.

That is, until I met my boyfriend, Eric. When we got out our phones to exchange numbers, I had to ask, “Really? That’s the phone you use?”

Eric’s cell was—and still is, even a year and a half later—a flip phone. It’s at least six years old. He used a landline, he told me, until the middle of his undergraduate education, when he finally gave up and got a cell. He’s had it ever since.

But it gets worse. His phone has no 3G or 4G capability, no access to music or video, and he often uses a connected handheld receiver to make calls.

“It’s more ergonomic,” he insists.

“Fine,” I reply, “but why don’t you at least use word prediction when you text?”

“I don’t like it,” he tells me. “It’s too presumptuous.”

Refusing to embrace the full potential of your smartphone so as not to get sucked into the virtual world is one thing. Refusing to even have remote access to information, directions, and train schedules is another. So when it came time to upgrade my phone, I offered Eric my old device.

“It’s practical to have one,” I told him.

He inspected the thing, skeptical, as always. “I hate touchscreens,” he complained. “They get fingerprints all over them.”

Eric went silent, giving my offer a moment of consideration. I did it, I thought. I’d won him over.

And at last, he gave me my answer.

“I’ll get a compass.”

So he did. I spent the next several months mocking him for it, as girls do when they secretly think something their boyfriend does is cute. Although it was frustrating trying to get even a single text message out of him, I found his Luddism charming. Instead of texts, I started sending him handwritten notes on letterpress cards. In a way, his lack of a smartphone didn’t keep us apart at all; it helped bring us closer together.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I didn’t tease him for it every chance I got. Every time I watched him ignore a text message because it was too long or pull his compass out of his bag to navigate the grid of Manhattan, I couldn’t help but make some remark about what a nerdy old man he was. At least, right up until my phone got pickpocketed on the subway.

“Are you sure it’s gone?” Eric asked me as we stood lost somewhere in the middle of an unfamiliar neighborhood in Bushwick. I’d searched through my purse five times and hadn’t found it.

“It’s practically the size of a television,” I snapped. “I think I’d notice if it were there.”

“Well, relax,” he said. “Let’s just get back to the apartment and we can work out what to do about it then.”

“Yeah,” I told him, “but the directions were in my Google Maps. Without my phone, I don’t know how to get us back there.”

Part of me wishes I could have retracted what I’d said. I knew now that I would have to soon stop all the ridiculing, all the gloating about how it was much better to have a smartphone just to be prepared for things. Until that moment, I was the one who always had all the information conveniently stored in front of her like some kind of super-secretary, with everything just a couple of keystrokes away. But here my borderline superpower was revealed to be scarcely more than a façade made possible by my keyboard and electronic gadgets. I was the Batman of note-takers, the Wizard of Oz of writers, totally inhibited without my technology.

And so, like some sort of antiquated, nerdy superhero, it was Eric’s turn to step forward and save the day. He produced from his pocket the only gadget he would ever need, presenting the compass out on a level palm, letting it show us, sans 4G data connection, how to safely make our way back to the subway station and all the way home.

Ana currently resides in Brooklyn in an apartment she can only locate by using her smartphone. As an English nerd and a pedant, she would like to note that she realizes compasses point magnetic north, which is not the same thing as true north, but was unable to resist the opportunity for the parallel syntax in the title of this piece.

Comic book fanatics are a special kind of nerd, a breed that’s both ravenous and fanatical. As have so many American boys across generations, I inhale my comics by the dozen; jumping from story to story quicker than your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man loses loved ones. I’m a superfan; one of those anti-life zombies totally enthralled by all things caped or crusader. I’m a loyal slave to two masters: Marvel and DC. More importantly, I’m a prime example of exactly the demographic these companies have pandered to since your grandparents were kids. I’m a young, white, middle-class, American man, one of the genre’s chosen ones, and I can’t ignore the ridiculous prejudice and exclusivity that hides so frequently in the pages of my literary drug of choice.

Sometimes laughable, sometimes genuinely offensive, comic book representations of people who aren’t testicle-wielding Anglo Americans are often downright problematic. Comics have carried this prejudice with them since the genre first dragged itself out of the bubbling viscera to emerge in the white washed golden age of Superman’s 1939 debut- A time when nary a brown face could be found on the page. And, despite some progress, it still hides between the lines today. While the causes of the problem are multiple, complex, and (unfortunately) the stuff of an entirely different article, its more light-hearted results are here for all to see and appreciate.

So, without further ado, here are three of the most laughably offensive and awkward (but not hateful) characters in mainstream pulp; champions of truth, justice, and the white-male-American way.

El Gaucho

Batman Incorporated #3

During my meditation on offensive superheroes, El Gaucho was probably the first that came to mind. This bandanna aficionado is a hot-headed Argentinian hero and a frequent cohort of Batman’s. As one of the Dark Knight’s most trusted Allies, you’d think he’d be a pretty solid character -and in some ways he’s actually kind of cool- but he looks like he should star in the crossover sequel to “Easy Rider” and Cheech and Chong’s “Up In Smoke”. Of all the members of Batman’s global boy’s club of heroes as seen in comics like “Batman Inc.”, this failed attempt to inject diversity into the genre is the one most likely to make you do a double take while reading. El Gaucho makes you wonder if any of the writers have ever actually met a Latino person, or if they’re just guessing that they all ride motorcycles and have ‘that’ kind of mustache.

The Invisible Woman

Ultimate Fantastic Four #21

Within the skin-tight bodysuit of Sue Storm, The invisible Woman of the Fantastic Four, exists a potentially even more shocking example of super-prejudice. A much more popular character than the “Machete” stunt double above, Sue’s practically a house-hold name. But her popularity never bought her much respect. In her appearances in FF comics from earlier, less equitable decades she set the precedent (and a pretty high bar) for sexism in the world of superheroes- that’s saying something in an industry in which a good two thirds of the female characters fight in heels, and 99% of them look like Hollywood sex symbols were gene spliced with Barbie dolls- only sexier and more unrealistic. Even here, Sue Still takes the hegemonic cake. For one, this blonde bombshell is utterly defined by being a wife. Always submissive and supportive of her much more important (and much, much smarter) husband, she’s basically treated like she’s actually always invisible. Not only does she shut up when Reed tells her to, she was often left behind when the men went on dangerous missions so she could keep vigil over the frikken domestic sphere- really, she’d stay home, watch the kids, eat some Valium, dust the teleporter, that kind of thing. After all, a super-powered science fight against alien nano-people (or wherever the fucking FF go on any given mission) is no place for a woman. I mean, unless you have, I don’t know, SUPERPOWERS or something. They excluded a woman from their dangerous adventures who can make things totally invisible. And, you know, no big deal, she could also make a nigh unbreakable force field or insta-kill a charging elephant with a twitch of her nose like she was a violently anti-environmental ‘I Dream of Genie”.

But in the early days she couldn’t even do that. Her only power was literally to turn invisible- she didn’t even get the force fields until years and years after her debut. Now, thank god, she gets a little bit of more than overdue recognition. In actuality, she’s really fucking bad-ass. She can create a force field in your heart, brain, or the head of your misogynist dick just by thinking it, and she’s generally accepted as the most dangerous member of the otherwise male team. Still, she was (and probably still is) most widely recognized not as ‘that cool superhero chick’, but as ‘Reed Richards’ boring wife”.

Oh, also, ‘The Invisible Woman’ sounds like the title of a Margaret Atwood book.

Steel

Steel Annual 2

Although he may be a more mildly offensive example than these first two face-palm inspiring heroes, one last crime fighter has to be mentioned -and I don’t think I should have to elaborate too much on why. John Henry Irons, ‘Steel’, was a tech genius possessing, battle-suit wearing, hammer swinging, bad mamma-jamma; and if you can’t guess his race by his name, you should stop reading now. He was supposed to be the Black cross between Black-Superman and Black-Tony Stark and we the public were supposed to fucking eat him up. DC thought everybody was going to be all “Finally a strong, positive black role model who isn’t a sidekick or something stupid like that! Look he’s a main character in a major Superman Comic!” Instead, predictably, everybody was like “Uh, wait, what was his name again?’. Not quite the sensation DC had in mind, Irons wore overalls in his downtime, and basically made people who read “The Death of Superman” uncomfortable more than making them proud of how far we’ve come as a nation on the issue of Black people wearing capes.

Actually, he really was a good role model: born in the rural south and raised in the ghettos of DC, he studied his way out of poverty, into a college engineering program, and then a big government contract. He became a wealthy scientist, and then a hero who ends up saving Superman’s famous white ass. Still… I mean, his name was actually John Henry Irons for chrissake. He played second fiddle to Kal El, carried a big iron hammer when he could have designed something much more high-tech, and he was frequently proselytizing -spouting lines about how bad things are in the projects. The writers could not have seemed any more painfully aware of this hero’s race; he wasn’t just a cool superhero like he could have been. He was the Black superhero, with a super-capital B. At least once he was referred to as a ‘steel drivin man’, and to top it off he was undone by the seduction of a (gasp!) older white woman.

I don’t know if that last part was actually all that racist, but it does remind me of “Pootie-Tang”, so there.

Peter Johnsen is a self-styled expert on just about everything with concentrations in comic books, mythology, and role-playing. A recent college graduate, Peter aspires to one day have adamantium bones.

Whenever I play Mario Party, I always choose Luigi. This is not because I think I am Luigi, but rather because I want to work with Luigi. I see us as partners, with me to handle the button pushing in the real world, and him to handle the luck and navigation of the digital world. The thing that first piqued my interest about him, interestingly enough, was the deep sadness he appears to experience when he loses. (Next time you play, take a really good look at Luigi’s loss animation.) Luigi is an emotional guy. He’s the kind of guy who brings you flowers just because and cries at the end of E.T. When I watched the despair in Luigi’s eyes after a loss, I felt certain that he was playing not because he wanted the chance to name Mario Land after himself, but because he had some alternative motive. Maybe he’s secretly in love with Peach, and wants the chance to show her what kind of man he is. Maybe he’s a humanitarian who truly cares about the plight of the Koopas. Maybe he has a wife and kids at home who depend on his hard-earned gold coins to buy food for the family. Whatever the reason, I wanted to help Luigi win. I chose Luigi then, and I’ve been playing with him ever since.*

Over the winter, I happened across this NPR interview and its longer companion piece about the nature of competition. The guest authors (Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman, “Top Dog: The Science of Winning and Losing”) point to several interesting findings about the human brain as it relates to winning and losing, but two things in particular stood out to me. First, that people who play to win (risk-takers) tend to experience a greater percentage of wins than losses. Second, that more men are risk-takers than women. My boyfriend, listening with me, immediately synthesized those facts into “That’s why you don’t win when we play games!”

My first reaction was anger. Anyone who heard the story would know his words were a gross simplification of the facts, a joke. But some combination of my sense of feminism and the smarting of the personal slight combined to make a raging lunatic out of me. (“You’re telling me that I don’t win because I’m a woman!?”) But since that time, I’ve done a lot of self-evaluating. I’ve asked myself, Do I play to win?, and found that the answer is overwhelmingly- No. My quest with Luigi, for example, becomes immediately gendered. When I play with Luigi, my goal is not necessarily to win because I think winning is objectively good, but to win because I want to see my partner succeed. I do this all the time. Like many non-risk-takers (or perhaps like many women), I find myself playing for reasons other than a desire to win. I play because I want to have fun, because I enjoy spending time with my friends, or because I like the story arc or the art of the game.

At first I experienced a lot of anxiety about my game-playing style. Should I be playing to win?, I thought, Should I care? I’ve thought about it a lot, and the more I think about it, the less I care. I love playing games, so what does it matter what my personal goals are? If my goal is no longer to win, then winning is only a bonus, not a prerequisite for having fun. I enjoy myself so much more if I don’t stress out about winning than if I do. It kind of takes the pressure off winning, when you think about it.

Of course I didn’t just self-reflect, I also observed the women and men I play games with (or, you know, against). First of all, I know all kinds of people. I think we all do. Men who play to win, women who play to win. Men who play for fun, women who play for fun. I’ve seen men who dispense advice to others, even to their own detriment. I’ve seen women deliberately throw games in favor of prolonging the fun or appeasing a grumpy opponent. Then again, I’ve played both men and women with bloodlust in their eyes. Some people make a competition out of everything. Is there something inherently masculine about winning? Maybe, maybe not. I think it’s safe to say, though, that whatever the reason, those people who play to win are getting something more out of winning than I am.

It’s not that I don’t care about winning. I do care. But for me an important factor is the authenticity of the win. That is to say, a game among equals is infinitely more pleasing to win than a game in which there is a great disparity of skill. I have to be good at the game to win, but in order for me to feel good about the win, my opponent has to be good too. In the same way, I don’t mind losing in a fair fight. It’s much easier to admire skill in an opponent when you truly understand that skill. In this way, I enjoy a game not necessarily because I win, but because I feel I have a chance at winning.

But are the men in my life playing by different rules? Do they see winning as the only objective in a game? Consider this- not too long ago, Luigi and I were in the lead in a game of Mario Party when a fellow player (a male playing Yoshi) stole a star from us! I felt betrayed. Shouldn’t he have stolen from someone else?, I thought, Shouldn’t there be some kind of PC vs. NPC solidarity? But from a win/loss perspective, he did the right thing. I was in the lead, and he took me down a peg. What’s more, as a PC with the ability to reason and think ahead, I was a better target than an NPC would have been. Nonetheless, stealing that star was something I never would have done.

Perhaps I should try to be a little more ruthless. Maybe one day I will, but if I do, it will be like a character I slip on. Winning is all right, but it’s not the most important thing. To date, Luigi and I have won only one game of Mario Party, and yet we truck on. He has his reasons, and I have mine.

Note: Muslima is the female form of Muslim, meaning someone who practices Islam.

I was born in a Chicago suburb to extremely nerdy parents. At <2 years old, I moved to Saudi Arabia.

I’ve told my story many times (tedious for me and others who have heard it sooooo many times). I’ve lived mostly in the Middle East and Mauritius, only recently coming to live in the United States. Most people who know me are aware of my travelling past and I forgive them every time they slip up when recounting it*. Everyone who knows me is damn aware that I am a huge nerd. However, my Western friends – they get confused. It’s like they see me as a nerd, but never seem to realize that I’ve been nerdy all my life. Yes, even during my childhood in such “terrible”** places as Saudi Arabia!

“How did you get to play games in Saudi?” one has asked. I imagine some dark underworld, unlabeled crates containing old NES cartridges, shifty men opening their coats. It wasn’t like that, oh please. Playing games in Saudi was just like playing games here. Sometimes, stores have low stock, and there are raids, but you can always find a game***. And movies? Pssh. NO problem. Sometimes censored, but sometimes not.

I guess it’s difficult to think of Middle Eastern countries as having awesome things because of how the media portrays them. The trepidation is reserved for Islamic countries especially, since the Western world finds Muslims terrifying. Saudi Arabia looks like Hell to the outsider when a landscape is painted with women unable to drive, movie theaters banned, and Shari’ah law. When I think of what Westerners think Arabs/Muslims are actually like, I imagine a bearded, turbaned brown man in a thobe**** wagging his finger on one hand saying “no fun allowed!” while bombing America with the other. Because of this, I can understand why my American friends, lovely as they are, are surprised that my nerdiness bloomed in Oman, Qatar, and yeah, even Saudi Arabia before I got here.

Another thing that some have found curious is that I am a passionate nerdette while still being a practicing Muslim. With that image of the restrictively-ruled Saudi Arabia in their minds, I know why Islam looks forbidding. After all, the Kingdom is home to Islam’s most holiest sites – one of which I used to visit just about every week. And here I am, missing that holy city of Makkah every day when I think about it – even while trying***** to get one stupid-ass headshot with my Psycho character in Borderlands 2. Ya Allah, just give me one headshot Insha’Allah!******

Being a Muslim nerd in a Muslim country is like being a nerd anywhere else. I cannot tell you how it’s different being a Muslim nerd when, uh, I don’t know anything else. The sad thing is how I’m alienated by so much of the content in nerdy art forms, like video games, books, and movies, because there is nothing about someone remotely like me.That’s how many Muslims and Middle Easterners feel – the characters who could be like us are enemies, not protagonists. We’re caricatures, not people. And if we are people, we are whitewashed. Just look at the Prince of Persia series, movie or game. Even Assassin’s Creed, which is on the road to something better – Islam is hardly mentioned, if at all, although it was a huge reason that Saladin was who he was!

It’s not unbelievable that I played Fallout 2 while living in Oman, or Diablo in Saudi Arabia. It’s unbelievable that I still haven’t been able to play a game with a Muslim protagonist yet. I know Westerners are scared of fatwas on their heads, but maybe one day a Muslim will rise in the ranks of a company and make a decision to represent a Muslim or a Middle Eastener respectfully. From one Muslim to you, it is possible – but Allah, when?!

—

*I look this way because my mother’s ancestors came from India, not the Middle East. No, I lived in Riyadh, then Makkah, then Riyadh again. No, I went to school in Jeddah, but lived in Makkah. I know it is confusing. I know…

I want magic powers. I bet you immediately thought of wizards and witches and fireballs and, just maybe, nearsighted preteen Brits with weather-related scars. I totally admit that would be awesome — flying on broomsticks, unlocking doors with a few spoken words, and playing with baseball cards that move. The thing is, in all those stories, those magic-doers have to battle evil or some garbage. Screw that, man. If I had magic powers, I wouldn’t fight evil or feel compelled to save the world. Nope, I would end up being one of those people who need a crane to be lifted out of their house. I would use magic to become the laziest person alive. Hey! I wouldn’t even need the crane! I could just levitate myself!

That’s right. Gone would be the days of having to get up and fetch that cake from the fridge. Never again would I have to reach over and pick up a ringing telephone. Say goodbye to needing to pay for heating oil. Instead, that cake would come to me. I would communicate telepathically with whoever called. I’d throw a fireball so hot, it would melt the neighbors’ house. Wait! It would be so hot, it would melt the neighbors! That’s what you get for judging the morbidly obese, Bob. Suck on my mystically enchanted sulfur balls…of flame.

See, the benefit to being a magician is that I could do whatever I want. At the top of the list? Nothing. In fact, please don’t bother me. That’s what I want most of all. I realize I could do amazing things to help the underprivileged. I could eliminate hunger, ease human suffering, and help those less fortunate pick themselves up by their bootstraps. The thing is, what about my bootstraps? Do you honestly expect me to lean over and grab ahold of my shoes when I could just magic them into my hands? Just because the underprivileged can’t manipulate space, matter, and time with a simple thought doesn’t mean it becomes my responsibility. Do you have any idea of the type of focus necessary to guarantee nothing but green lights every time I leave the house?

Shut up, Uncle Ben!

I imagine being the most powerful human being alive would allow a lot of time for little pet projects. Have you ever seen the movie The Rocketeer? I’m pretty sure magic is the only way you don’t become a torso with flaming stumps for legs. What about Star Wars? I would totally call myself a Jedi. Let’s see if Han still thinks “hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a trusty blaster at your side” when I use magic to turn that blaster in a rabid bantha in heat. Also, I would create pretty much anything in Back to the Future II. Hoverboards are freakin’ awesome.

The classic mistake.

There’d be no rules to hold me back.There’d be no one to stop me. No force in the entire world would give me the slightest pause. I realize this sounds like the start of every villain story. At first, his intentions are good. He alone sees the one true path to universal peace. He alone can save the human race, just so long as all power is forfeited to him. I know what you’re thinking. This is exactly what would happen to me. All my good intentions would buckle under the weight of all that power. In no time at all, I would be a despot.

Well, you’re totally wrong. You have wildly overestimated my motivation to do anything except sit on my couch and watch Netflix. I realize I could do all sorts of amazing, powerful, unstoppable things. I just wouldn’t want to. I would, at most, sit around with servants to wait on me hand and foot. I would surround myself with sycophants who inevitably would become my entourage. They’d get me all my food, provide entertainment, and basically run my empire (which would be completely dedicated to making me even more lazy). Basically, I’d be a Jedi version of Jabba the Hutt.

Before you freak out, I already know that Hutts cannot be Force-sensitive. Don’t get your Twi’leks in a bunch.

Maybe this is why there is no magic in the world anymore. (Let’s not quibble over the existence, or the practical realities, of magic. For the sake of this discussion, let’s assume magic is real. Don’t be a Bob, okay?) Maybe all the magicians in the world got into a huge war over resources. One especially powerful magician was able to horde all the food and servants, while the other magicians starved to death. Then the reigning magician choked on a mutton sandwich, the food blocking his airway and thus preventing him from being able to call for help. Quite tragically, he forgot he could just magic the food away. It was just too delicious.

Or magic doesn’t exist. Shut up, Bob!

Joe is an amateur magician. So far, his magical abilities consist of waving his hand in front of an automatic door and making it open. He does not have a neighbor named Bob…anymore.

Come, my friends, and let me bring you to a magical world where your physical limitations will not prevent you from kicking ass, and your imagination defines reality. Put your PSP down, log out of League of Legends for a while, and don your least era-specific boots. There are player characters to whomp, and it might get muddy. We’re going LARPing.

LARPs are all about 24/7 immersive role-play. They take the fantasy a step beyond. You create a character, invent a backstory, put on makeup, dress the part, and physically wander around a real setting, interacting with other players and making up the banter as you go along. And occasionally you beat the crap out of them.

You may have been introduced to the subcultre when LARPing gained some mainstream notoriety from the 2008 buddy comedy, Role Models.

Word on the street is that the irl LAIRE was shocked by the dramatized version of their game that director David Wain brought to the silver screen. (The guy in maroon, on the left, is going in for a super illegal head-swing.)

LARPs have their own universes, including game rules, dress code, participation, and combat system. The intention of the group is to tell a story rather than to recreate one that happened. The storyteller (or plot member) creates a module (or scene) and expresses to the non-player-characters (NPCs, the regenerating horde of monsters) what dialogue must get through to the players in each specific adventure. The improvisation comes into play when free-thinking gamers choose to interact with their opposition.

Each group/faire/event/game is different from its neighbor. There is no rigid how-to guide that umbrellas all of the producing organizations. All games create individual silhouettes and moods. LARPing necessitates believing in what is possible rather than believing that it is real while dressing up to play “make-believe”.

Not a beanbag arsenal. Magic.

LARPers get a bad rap. It takes a lot of chutzpah to fully commit to an imaginary character. To let that made-up person’s wants and needs envelop your own. Like protagonist, Kvothe, in The Name of the Wind, a LARPer must create two separate thinking minds — your character loses her puppet strings, and your puppet master ignores OOG (out of game) information that might sway her decision making. I know that stepping on that doggy toy springs a trap, but my character doesn’t have the skill ‘trap-finding’…guess I’m walking through this maze without looking down, so to keep myself honest. Squeak. Boom. 5 Normal Damage!

But isn’t total immersion what we’re looking for in our over-saturated-short-attention-span filled lives? We’ve learned to divide our attention so to avoid boring our big brains. We’re in constant communication through social media and text messages. Movie-going is a time-honored passive activity that grabs our attention, but not enough to warrant the unnecessity of high-budget PLEASE DON’T TEXT IN THE THEATER pleas from our sponsors before the show. LARPing is a perfect solution.

I’ll set the scene for you.

—

It’s late Saturday night. You’re exhausted from having spent the entire day on your feet, running about the woods, ducking branches, and parrying blows. At your side is a band of your closest pals. You might live states apart from each other, as a good LARP is worth the travel. You’re not reminiscing about a night at the bar, but you are gambling in the Tavern. That greedy halfling swindled you out of your coin last month, and you want to show him a lesson this time.

But suddenly, every head in the Tavern turns to the door: a scream starts and is quickly muffled from the center of town. One of the newest players has been captured. On cue, your noble friends and heroic townpeople hustle to regroup. Someone casts light, someone offers their silver weapons, someone begins to track. A band of fighters and casters gather, huddling in woolen cloaks accepting buffs, preparing for an altercation.

Without fail, the tracks lead you to a dark narrow path. There could be anything in that darkness. Confident fighters send shields to the front and the back of the group. People huddle for protection, tripping on each other’s robes, fumbling quiet apologies. Commotion erupts at the back of the line: from the darkness, a claw has reached out to grab a healer! And soon, persistent ghoulish undead things are slashing at you from all sides. You block the blows you can see while ticking down your health until they no longer resurrect.

Fear has a hold of a few of you, who would consider heading back to town, but there is safety in numbers. And who knows how many more waves of swords and spells you’ll face before reaching the Big Bad and helping your comrade to further solve the riddle that obfuscates his past.

A scout returns to the group to report that he’s found the Drow Matron’s layer. You start, confident once more and accept some healing potion from your neighbor. He keeps the bottles in a handcrafted leather belt with pouches and snaps. You’re honored that he’s sharing and caught off guard when a monster flies at you from the brambles that have been deceptively quiet and peaceful at your side. You jump back to avoid the blow and two things happen in quick succession: you knock your friend into the bushes and lose your glasses.

TIME OUT!

Laughter boils as skeletons help their fellow gamers to their feet. Plot members and the well prepared shine flashlights on the earth to help you find your glasses.

IS THERE ANY REASON THIS TIME OUT SHOULD CONTINUE?

There are murmurs as people return to positions mid-battle, frozen.

GAME ON!

And thus, your journey continues. When you and your band return to town, victorious, the Tavern fills once more. You dry your grass-stained boots on the stove and sip heated cider to warm your nose and rehydrate. For this is living. This is LARPing.

EEK allegedly plagiarized some of this article from her undergraduate thesis about the sub-genres of Neo-Medieval themed performance, because she is a very, very cool kid.